"Just as we were all so comfortable in the gloaming!" pulling her hand from Bertie's with a pout. "Butterflies should like light better than darkness," he drawls. "I want to look round now," cries Eleanor, enthusiastically viewing the beautiful room. "Anyone could see that Giddy had something to do with this." "Here is a pretty little writing-table behind a screen, with a rose-coloured lamp," says Carol. "When you are a member, Mrs. Roche, will you sometimes write to me?" "What should I have to say?" she asks innocently, surprised at the suggestion. "Tell me about yourself, if only in one line: 'I live--I breathe--I have my being.'" "What an odd letter!" "I like odd things, I like odd people; I hate conventionality, and scorn the commonplace. I know a girl who always speaks the truth, and everybody hates her. She glories in it." "How splendid to be hated for such a cause!" declares Eleanor. "She never will embrace a woman she dislikes, so many people think it is necessary, and the kiss of detestation is more fashionable in Society than that of real affection. For myself, I think a kiss is overrated. It should be looked on in the light of a hand-shake--harmless and agreeable, a mark of courtesy, endearment or respect." "Then you would have to explain it," says Eleanor. "'I kiss you because I idolise you;' 'I kiss you because you are estimable;' 'I kiss you because you are rich and entertain me.' No, it would never answer." She is fingering the delicate, scented writing paper. "How nice this address is in gold, with a big butterfly in the corner. I have some invitations to answer, and I should like to do it here--it looks so well." Eleanor seats herself, and draws the paper towards her. "Mrs. Roche regrets that, owing to no previous engagement, she is unable to accept Mrs. B's dull invitation for Thursday!" Carol laughs. "Have you an 'At home' on Thursday week?" "Yes, but I shall decline it." "Don't," he whispers. "Accept--let them expect you--and fail to turn up. Come and meet me instead." Eleanor trembles suddenly and grows pale. She feels herself face to face with temptation. "No," she replies faintly. "But I shall be in, and _if_ you call----" "'If'! there is no 'if' in the matter. I would come every day if you let me." "Every day!" Oh! how alluring it sounds. She twists her wedding ring round and round, looking down on the carpet. She remembers the pattern that night in her dreams, a red Maltese cross on a blue ground. The blue and red swim before her eyes now like the colours in a kaleidoscope. A solitary tear rises in her left eye and falls on the blotter. "If only I might do as I like!" she murmurs. "'Might' is a word you could blot from your vocabulary. Why not?" "Oh! don't--don't--don't," as he lays his hand on hers, and the touch thrills her with bewildering emotion. "Where is Giddy? Oh! Giddy, take me home; it is nearly half-past five, and Philip will be back."